


Pandora's Box

by artisticabandon



Category: Avatar (2009), Stargate Atlantis
Genre: ATA Gene, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Dragons, Gen, Grief/Mourning, POV First Person, Permanent Injury, SGA Reverse Bang Challenge, Sentient Atlantis, Unreliable Narrator, sarcasm about disabilities, strange coping mechanism, unreliable as all hell really, whatever helps ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-08-28 23:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16732512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artisticabandon/pseuds/artisticabandon
Summary: As far back as I can remember, I've dreamed of flying...The closest I could ever get was the Air Force... Until a rogue missile shot me down and literally shot a hole through my life. For all my trying, all I gained was a wheelchair and a healthy helping of scarring. Yay, go me.I still dream, though.-- Or --Sheppard left the military a cripple. A decade later they want him back. Not for him. For his gene. But will they want thechallengeschanges having him brings?(art by danceswithgary)





	1. Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Artwork for SGA Reverse Bang 2018: Avalon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16540391) by [danceswithgary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswithgary/pseuds/danceswithgary). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We have news for you. It's about your brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check the link above or click on the teaser image below for the full art piece that ~~is responsible for~~ inspired this mess

* * *

[](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16540391)

* * *

 

As far back as I can remember, I've dreamed of flying.

Skimming over treetops. Through the clouds. Feeling the wind.

The closest I could ever get was the Air Force. Saw some mean bush doing combat rescue, training in all sorts of helos and lifters, just trying to capture the feelings in my dreams. Until a rogue missile shot me down and literally shot a hole through my life. Sent me to hell and back just because it could.

For all my trying, I gained a wheelchair and a healthy helping of scarring. Yay, go me.

At least I still have the dreams.

* * *

A cripple doesn't get far far these days. Not in this economy. A VA check and 12 dollars gets a coffee and a sugar ration. Usually just the coffee though, because sugar, well, that became so rare after the Cane Blight about a decade ago that it's only now making a comeback.

There are _reasons_ why I take my coffee (when I get it) straight. Long black in a tall mug.

Affording a spinal on my budget?

Yeah. Keep dreaming, buddy.

Now alcohol...that's free.

Especially for veterans.

I try not to drink too much though. Even now, I like to keep my head clear. Never know what's coming round the corner, you know?

Habits of a lifetime reinforced by (too many) combat zones.

Which is probably the reason I'm more or less sober when The Suits come for me.

Tall, Dark, and Grim. Yeah, just more faces of the corporate oppressors. (And people wonder why I went military.)

Grim just stands in the background and says nothing. Probably the muscle, if the hardware he's packing under the suit jacket is anything to go by. Most likely sent to keep an eye on the proceedings, make sure I won't make a run for it. (Hah. They have no sense of humor. Really.)

Tall does the actual talking while Dark stands off to the side. More muscle, obviously. "John Patrick Sheppard."

I grimace. Yeah. It has to be important if they're pulling out the full name. "That's me."

"We have news for you. Its about your brother."

Oh Dave. What have you gone and done now?

* * *

Turns out, Dave had gone and got himself killed. All for a few pieces of paper in his wallet.

In a way I can sympathize. I had days that I was desperate, especially when I was waiting for the next VA check (the mail definitely wasn't what it used to be), but murder... Yeah. I doubt I could ever sink that low.

No. I _know_ I could never sink that low.

On the other hand, they got me to the morgue in time to identify Dave's body. At least he got to be cremated as my brother, as Dave, and not some...John Doe. Or a number. At least my last glimpse of him _means_ something.

Which brought me back to why they really came for me. (Because lets face it, it really isn't to ID the body. Not with today's technology.)

Tall is speaking again. "You and Mr Sheppard share enough of a genome that we think you can help us. Step into his shoes, so to speak."

Hilarious.

I didn't say much (anything), so he just keeps speaking. More blah blah about science stuff I don't get. Above my paygrade, above my understanding, and more importantly, no doubt above my clearance level, judging by the words he was using. (To be blunt, though, I kind of lost interest at 'shared genes'.)

See, Dave was the scientist. The dreamer. I was the grunt who didn't know when to quit. And then paid for it. And will keep paying, every day of my miserable life in this chair.

(Yeah. This is gonna work out so well, I can just see it.)

* * *

Pegasus.

Ask me what that was a week ago and I'd have said 'winged horse'. Creature of myth, probably bogus. Definitely extinct if not.

Job done and won, move to the head of class.

Turns out...not so much. Not if you're talking about _galaxies_. The information packet is promoting it like its the source of some of the greatest informational and technological advances seen in the last decade.

What utter crap.

Honestly... It just feels like the latest in a long line of places the government ships rejects (cripples) off to. Gone. Forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind, you know? That sort of thinking feels much more comfortable than some... tech think-tank.

Even _if_ Dave is--- _was_ involved in it.

Dammit David. What've you gotten me involved in now?

* * *

Okay, so it turns out you _can't_ just walk (or roll) to where they want me to go.

Sounds fair enough. Pegasus is another _galaxy_ after all.

Damn. I can't believe I just thought that.

_Focus, Sheppard._

Right.

So. Pegasus.

Turns out there's two ways to get there.

Option one is this thing called a Stargate. (Don't ask me, I didn't name it.) But because you're hopping galaxies, there's a...halfway stop in between. At a place called Midway. (Again, I didn't name it.) Length of the trip is something like twenty four hours, because of course there's a stop over for quarantine at this Midway thing.

I don't blame them. I wouldn't want to bring anything from this place with me to another galaxy either.

But because us cripples get the cheap seats, I'll be taking the long way.

In other words, we're going for option two, the tin can. Apparently its actually a ship called the _Daedalus_. On the one hand, its going to take three weeks -- which, even from my basic understanding of science, is something amazing. (Like, just how fast will we be traveling anyway?) On the other hand, its a military ship...and I have to be awake for all of it. (Well, okay, not all of it. I imagine I'll be sleeping for some of it.)

No cryosleep for this John boy, no. No way would I be that lucky. (Or rate that highly with the bean-counters.)

* * *

Turns out there _are_ ways to ignore the military while in close-confinement for three whole weeks.

Some would call it being a hermit.

I call it self-preservation.

I left the military for some damn good _reasons_ , and it wasn't just because I was looking at a lifetime in a wheelchair. (Well, not only.)

* * *

My three-week amnesty comes to an end with a knock on the door to my quarters in the Daedalus.

After a moment to check my appearance (hair semi-done, shirt on, shoes on, right), I get myself turned around and over to the door to open it. I suppose the room is spacious for the ship, but really, there's not enough room to maneuver a wheelchair. (Actually, I've been in _cells_ that had more room than that cabin, but that's another story.) (Because I've also been in cells that had a lot less, which is a different story again.) (Said stories are also pre-chair era.) "What is it?"

The Airman at the door is so neatly pressed, I'm half surprised he doesn't cut the air with the creases in his uniform. Mustn't see much action. "We'll be arriving in range of Atlantis in half-an-hour, sir. Colonel Caldwell thought you might appreciate the notice."

Atlantis.

_Focus, Sheppard. Focus._

I clear my throat and nod in dismissal. "Thanks for the notice, Airman."

"Sir. I'll return in twenty-five minutes to show you to the disembarking area," he says, before flicking me a quick salute and jogging away.

Right.

I glare after him. "I'm a civilian dammit." I _earned_ my walking papers.

I wheel myself back inside and shut the door. Looks like I have twenty-five minutes left of freedom. Make the most of them, Sheppard.

* * *

Twenty-five minutes?

I was actually ready in twenty.

Which meant that in reality, I only had a measly five minutes of freedom to think about what the hell I was doing here. In Pegasus. Preparing to "disembark" onto this Atlantis thing.

What on earth was I thinking even being here?

What did I think I could achieve? I was stuck in a chair dammit. I didn't have Dave's smarts, let alone his head for science.

All I had was me. Me and my "gene". And even that, I apparently share with good ol' Dave.

Shared, not share. Use the right tense, dammit.

* * *

Turns out the disembarkation area...thing...was actually the mess hall.

According to my lovely Airman escort, it's the only area on the tin can big enough to hold us all. ('Us' as in all the crazies going to Atlantis. Whatever that is.)

Its at the tip of my tongue to ask how we get from converted mess hall to outside, because I sure as heck don't see a boarding ramp or exit besides the one we came in through, before I decide to hold my tongue. I've asked enough stupid questions today and I have a thing about asking people I've just met.

"Here we are, Sir. Just wait here and we'll have you down in a minute." The Airman does _another_ salute and leaves.

Idiot. What the hell is he saluting me for? I signed up for this gig as a science geek, to take over for Dave, not as a retired military vet.

I turn the chair to correct him, to yell out after him and then---

My world flashes bright white.

I catch a quick glimpse of copper-blue-green then my world explodes in pain and darkness.


	2. Atlantis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up in an infirmary is always a pleasure. Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd. because i couldn't wait to get this one up. :)

Waking up in an infirmary is always a pleasure.

Really. It is.

You have staff at your beck and call. Interesting scenery. The latest tech. Heaps of visitors. And drugs. Don't forget the drugs.

Okay so I lied.

In reality, I wake with a headache the size of Texas, nausea only _this_ side of throwing up, and medical equipment beeping at me like it's from _before I was born_ instead of this year.

And...I'm alone. But that's nothing unusual.

What is unusual is the ceiling. None of that 'hundred shades of white' rubbish I've seen in what seems to be every hospital and infirmary from here (wherever _here_ is) to Timbuktu (which I haven't been to) (officially). No. _This_ is...different. Blues, and greens, and coppery reds.

Kind of reminds me of the ocean.

Okay, so it reminds me of the _pictures_ I've seen of the oceans, what they were supposed to look like before all the corporations got their greedy little hands on them. (And...no. I'm not bitter at all.)

Any further contemplation of the ceiling is interrupted when I hear shoes squeaking, getting closer.

Huh. So I _do_ have visitors.

What a quaint concept.

I (carefully) turn my head to turn and look, and I'm probably the least surprised one here when it turns out to be a doctor. (Generic scrubs under an even white coat is a pretty good indication.)

_Yeah Sheppard. Because its not like you'll ever get visitors. Not anymore anyways._

"Ah, you're awake. And how are we feeling now?"

Yep. Definitely a doctor. The great 'we' has come out.

I've done this medical rodeo often enough that I just shake or nod my head to most of the questions. As long as I get something for the headache and nausea, I'm not too fussed on the rest of it. Hell, I don't mind if I _don't_ get anything either.

Doctors can be weird.

It's on the tip of my tongue to ask about that big white flash that landed me here...but I don't. I don't ask. In my experience, asking those sorts of questions lead in one of two ways: padded rooms or head shrink drugs. (I've had enough of both to last me a lifetime and then some.)

And since I don't know which way this Doc which will go, I'm saying _nothing_.

It seems like forever before we get to the end of the poking and prodding. (Honestly. If I didn't have sore spots before he started, I'm pretty sure I do now.)

"And...looks like you're good to go," he tells me, slinging a stethoscope around his neck. (Really? Someone still uses those things?) "If you hurry, there should be the safety briefing still going in the mess."

* * *

The mess, as it turns out, is fairly easy to find.

Just follow the bellowing voice.

After all, there's nothing like an old-school safety briefing to soothe the military soul.

"...my job is to keep you alive." The high-muckity-muck obviously in charge is in camo and walking up and down the aisle. At the moment his back's to me, which is something. If I'm lucky he won't notice that I'm late.

Yeah. As if I'm ever that lucky.

As quietly as I can, I wheel myself in to the back of the group and settle in.

Then he turns and I can _feel_ his gaze hit me. My chair. And then dismiss me and move on. "And I _will not succeed_. Not with _all_ of you."

I glower at his back. Way to make someone feel appreciated. _Idiot._

"If you want to live you need to _obey the rules_." Cue pause for drama. " _Atlantis_ rules."

Right.

I don't even know this man's _name_ and I can already tell I don't like his self-entitled passive aggressive ass.

I hope I won't have much to do with him, but, well, you know what they say about hope and lead balloons.

* * *

After all that, I'm not expecting much from the science department on this thing. A few beakers and burners, maybe. Hell, maybe even something _steam-powered_ for all I know. (Those information packets I read? So useless.)

What the hell had I signed up for? Had _Dave_ signed up for?

I'm almost there when I meet what seems to be my first scientist for the day. Radek Zalenka. Smallish man. Graying hair. He also intermingles English and Czech, which is okay, since I'm familiar enough with the language. (European languages have the most _interesting_ swears.) It's also not something you hear much these days, not since the EU Wars nine years ago.

He also promptly appoints himself my tour guide for the morning.

Just as well, because otherwise I'd have likely got myself lost in this place.

Damn, but this Atlantis thing is big.

Having Zelenka with me is how I get my first look at why I'm here. Why they wanted me--- no, why they wanted _Dave_.

It's a chair. _The_ chair, to hear Zelenka talk. He's so excited to talk about it that he keeps slipping into Czech.

Because apparently it's hard to both do the chair thing and science at the same time? Which is why they want me. So I can sit in the chair and they can...do their science thing around me.

Or something.

Which doesn't really make sense to me, because if it's a chair, shouldn't all they need to do is, well, sit on it? What's so hard about that? (Seriously, I'm a past master of sitting and multi-tasking. What's so hard about it?)

At the door to this...chair room...is another scientist. Slicked back hair, a smirk I could've parked a jet in, and an attitude where I'm thinking he thinks he should've been the first person I met today.

"Dr Peter Kavanagh," he says, hand out for me to shake. (Like his name is supposed to mean something to me?)

So I shake it and tell him my name in an equally self-important way. (If the shoe fits, right?)

He and Zelenka immediately start talking off to the side. They're using technical words that I understand (especially in isolation), but really make no sense the way they're using them _together_. I mean, what use is a transitory particle interceptor anyway? Sounds like something right of a scifi movie.

(If they start talking about _flux capacitors_...I swear I'm gonna find that stupid tin can I arrived in and go straight back to Earth.)

Which lets me look at this all important chair...which seriously reminds me of the old kind of dental chair. Which kind of got shrunk and then bits added on like an afterthought.

And there's someone actually _on_ said chair. Laying back on it with his eyes closed, looking more asleep than anything.

Huh. I guess they _can_ sit (or lay down) and do science at the same time.

I must've made some noise out loud, because Kavanagh turns back to me. "And this...is Dr Rodney McKay." he says, gesturing at the man on the chair. "He wrote the book on Atlantean Technology. I mean, he literally _wrote the book_."

Zalenka snorts from somewhere to the rear. "Is because he prefers tech to people."

Well, that was fair enough. I prefer flying over people, so...who was I to start pointing fingers?

I'm probably the most startled one in the room when the chair we're all looking at suddenly moves from the reclined position to almost upright and rotates around towards us. I swear to myself. _That thing can do that?!_

Right. That's...good to know. I...guess?

McKay pushes himself upright and starts snapping his fingers. "Right. What's _wrong_ with this picture people?"

Kavanagh charges over towards him from behind me, some kind of fancy but rugged tablet in his hands. The two of them immediately get into yet another technical discussion. Something about...readings...and...subharmonic oscillation?

I think?

Zelenka clears his throat and steps forward.

"McKay. I want you to meet John Sheppard."

McKay looks over to me from where he's poking at the tablet thing and rolls his eyes. "Yeah. I know. But see, I don't need you. I need _the PhD with the gene_ who trained for _three years_ for this mission."

PhD? Gene? Dave? (On the other hand, an eye-roll is a different kind of greeting to what I usually get. Doesn't that mean something? Somewhere?)

I push the (grief) confusion down and stare right back. If he thinks I'm going to be intimidated, think right again. "He's dead." _Breathe Sheppard. Breathe._ "I know, its a big inconvenience for everyone."

"So? At least tell me you've done _some_ lab training."

I blink, unsettled at the rapid subject change. Me? Doing science? Uh, did junior science count? "I dissected a frog once."

McKay shoves the tablet at Zelenka, who scrambles to catch it without dropping it. "You see? You see! They're messing with us without the decency to call it what is! They have no business sticking _their_ noses in _my_ department."

Kavanagh clears his throat. "Uh, maybe we should---"

McKay glares at him with a glare with the power of a thousand suns. "Shut it, Peter. I'm going to see Woolsey." And he storms off.

Zelenka sighs and rubs his temples. " _Zatracený_. Be back here, 0800 tomorrow. Try using big words."

* * *

After the day I've had, I figure Atlantis can't disappoint me any more than it already has.

I'm wrong. (So very wrong.)

The room where I'm apparently staying is...eye-opening.

I have a bed.

A desk.

Crates stacked against the wall for a makeshift shelving.

And _room_. Actual _floor space_ that's enough to maneuver the chair...and then some.

You don't even get that sort of space on _Earth_. Well, okay, you do, but you either have to be mega-rich or something. And if you're _that_ rich, well, a spinal is nothing. Small change kinda thing.

At this stage, I'm not sure if it's a bribe to get me here, a bribe to keep doing the science thing, or just on par with what everyone else has (in which case I shouldn't care about it as much as I do).

In any case, all I really care about at the moment is getting in the bed. The headache from before hasn't really gone away, just drifted towards the background. Annoying, persistent, and... _there_.

Maybe sleep will improve things...make things look better in the morning.

Yeah, and maybe pigs might fly too.


	3. Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What have I got to lose? ...Only my dignity, seeing as I'm here, doing _science._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hold on to the rails, ho boy. this is where we leave Kansas behind.

Just like every other day of my life (well, since boot camp anyway), I'm up at dawn.

Not that it does me much good, since I'm not all that sure of the clock here, it's still dark outside, and there are _five moons_ in the sky. Five. Moons. Nothing like an alien sky to remind me that I'm in an alien galaxy on an alien planet, right?

Yeah.

I have the feeling my biorhythms are a little...off-kilter for the planet I'm on.

This...is obviously going to take some getting used to.

Well. I'm up anyway, right? Might as well make the morning (night) useful.

* * *

Turns out, I'm off on my dawn estimate by about an hour and a half.

Used to be, I'd take advantage of so much time to run. Push my body to the limits. Exercise, exploration, meditation, and sometimes just because I _could_.

Yeah. And I also used to fly, and look where _that_ got me.

These days, if I want to go places, the only things I push are wheels (and my arms, but that's a given, because I'm getting nowhere if I don't).

And this Atlantis place...wasn't made with accessibility guidelines in mind.

Stairs.

So. Many. Stairs.

At least by the time dawn decides to show up, I've figured out what rooms I can easily reach from my quarters -- medical, science, and kitchen, the holy trinity of the bare essentials (all that's missing is the quartermaster and I'd be all set). Finding more requires either more time or poking at the underbelly of this place -- the back alleys and paths no one uses but are actually shortcuts.

Knowing my luck, it'll probably be both. No, it'll probably be the _maintenance tunnels_ , which I can't use. Not in this damn chair anyway.

With that fine thought for company, I shelve the mapping project for another day and head to the kitchen area. All this exploring has made me hungry. Surely, a place this big, they know how to feed their people.

Wrong.

I'm so very wrong.

Breakfast in the commissary is either an exercise in torture or someone's idea of KP revenge.

Or maybe some unholy combination of both, considering my bread is purple, the meat is green, and the salad is pink.

I won't even talk about the _eggs_. The less I think about _that_ , the better.

Yeah. Definitely alien.

I think I'll be eating MREs for a while. Certainly can't be any worse.

On the other hand, I finally found someone willing to explain how clocks work at this place. Which is another level of crazy I'm not sure I needed but I now know anyway.

Who the hell decided a planet with a twenty-seven hour day was a good place to put a base?

* * *

After all that, I'm still on time to the science lab...department thing. Chair room.

Whatever.

0800 Atlantis time (or AST for short) on the dot, and Zelenka and McKay are already here. Or maybe they never left, seeing as someone's made a half-hearted attempt at a pyramid of coffee cups in the corner that wasn't there yesterday... And said pyramid comes up the _top of my wheels_.

Part of me is surprised that they're not twitching their way around the room. Instead they're just having what seems to be a semi-controlled spat for control over one tablet, judging by the way it so frequently changes hands and how they're finishing each other's sentences.

My wheels squeak as I enter the room, and McKay looks up and treats me to the wide-blown stare of the coffee-fueled insomniac. "Ah, Dr Sheppard. Right. We're just getting ready for you."

I wince. "Dr Sheppard is--- _was_ my brother." Dammit Sheppard. Get the right tense. "Just...Sheppard is fine."

After all, when I was in the military, I was called by either my rank, my call-sign, or my rank and surname, depending on the situation. More the first two than anything. Just hearing my surname by itself is still a novelty I'm still getting used to, even a decade later.

It certainly gets my attention, anyway.

McKay nods, attention already half back on the tablet in Zelenka's hands. "Sheppard. Right. Okay. If you'll just come over here..." he says, waving vaguely to a spot beside the chair, and then mutters to himself.

Scientists.

I sigh and roll myself over. At this point, I don't have anything left to lose anyway.

My mother died years ago. A few years after that my father disowned me. My brother, the only one of the family still talking to me, is now dead too. My military career's over. Hell, I've even lost the use of my legs. What's left, after all that?

I guess only my dignity, seeing as I'm here, doing _science_.

Oh Dave. How you'd be rolling around in laughter right now.

Dammit Sheppard.

Focus.

I wait by the chair for what seems an age but is actually more like five minutes. I occupy the time counting all the terms the two scientists mention that I don't know, or don't understand. Well, I understand the _words_ , but not together and not how they're using them.

And there's _a lot_.

What have I got myself into?

Finally, Zelenka looks up. "We are ready."

McKay nods, still poking at the tablet he's holding. "Yes, yes, if you could just get on the chair then we'll get underway."

Part of me wants to make a crack about how I'm already on a chair, but I don't. I have a feeling they'd miss the pun completely.

To be fair, Zelenka leaves the tablet alone long enough to come over and offer to help me into the chair thing.

I shake my head. "Nah. I got this." After all, I've been lugging these dead-weight legs around for a decade now. Surely, I can get myself out of one chair into another.

It takes a bit of maneuvering, because there's no way these two chairs are of equal height, but I manage. It helps that I've spent ten years working on my core and upper body strength.

It also helps that I refuse to take no for an answer.

Yeah, that's me. John Sheppard, retired pilot, veteran of one too many wars, paraplegic, and equal opportunity pain in the ass. Mainly because I switched to stubbornness and spite for fuel when I gave up on av-gas.

Which also means that I try not to twitch too obviously when Zelenka moves my chair away from, well, the chair.

Right. Because it rotates.

But...by the gods. I _have_ to find a better way to refer to this thing.

Especially seeing as I'm _sitting in it_ and about to _do science_ in the damn thing.

I sigh again and lean back. (And try not to reveal how disconcerted I am that the stupid thing immediately decides to start glowing and does a half-rotation.)

Let's get this _done_.

"Sheppard. Think of where we are in space."

Oh. Right.

Space.

Pegasus.

So damn far from earth I can't even count it.

I blink and look up, just as startled as everyone else when there's a holographic display above my head...showing Earth and the Pegasus Galaxy, with a blinking number that I'm pretty sure is the distance between them, seeing as it's _so stupidly huge_.

I swallow, my mouth dry. "Did I do that?" Just by _thinking_ about it?

Someone please tell me my life is not about to get that strange.

The echoing silence is answer enough.


End file.
